


Inside This Gilded Cage A Songbird Always Looks So Plain

by always_a_slut_for_hc



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Captivity, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, One Shot, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Regret, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22569907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/always_a_slut_for_hc/pseuds/always_a_slut_for_hc
Summary: A Witcher kinkmeme fill - After the events of Episode 6, Geralt wants to find Jaskier and apologize. But news of Jaskier's death reaches him before then, and Geralt must live with the pain and guilt.Unless....
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 39
Kudos: 888





	Inside This Gilded Cage A Songbird Always Looks So Plain

Life on the road was quiet after the dragon's mountain. Geralt told himself he enjoyed it - just the sound of Roach's hooves on the beaten track, the solemn moan of the winds in the trees, the bubbling of rivers he happened by.

It was a lie. Geralt had grown too accustomed to Jaskier's incessant babble and the constant strumming of his lute, so accustomed that he felt the silence keenly. Another thing to unfairly blame the bard for, he supposed. 

He knew he'd been unfair on the mountain, when his panic at losing Yennefer had erupted into a river of poison, squarely aimed at Jaskier. Jaskier, who'd done nothing but try to cheer him up and offer to travel to the coast with him. Jaskier, whose attempt at lightness and levity in an obviously tense situation had earned him banishment from Geralt's side.

Now, with the cool-headedness of hindsight, Geralt bitterly regretted his words. Most of all, he regretted the expression of total betrayal and pain he'd seen on Jaskier's face before he'd turned away. That face haunted his steps - now the image that went along with thoughts of Jaskier was not his customary contented expression, or even one of his more coquettish smirks, but one of shocked heartbreak.

Geralt wanted nothing more than to find the bard again, apologize, and have the sight of Jaskier's smile wipe away the memory of his broken expression. He looked in every tavern in every town he stopped through, but had no luck. Oh, he heard stories of the bard, new songs he'd written, but Geralt was always too late to catch his quarry.

That is, until he was too late, forever.

\---

It was fall when he heard the whispers, sitting alone at the tavern in the latest tiny hamlet he'd passed through. He caught fragments of sentences - "fever after the ball-" "the lord called the healer to the castle-" "-two days later, poor thing." "a shame, such a talented songwriter-"

Geralt caught the barmaid as she bustled by his table, laden with ales. "What news?" he grunted.

"Oh, just that traveling bard, Jaskier? He wrote all them songs about your kind?"

Geralt nodded, his throat curiously tight as his mind put the snatches of conversation together.

"Well, he played at the Lord of Drakenborg's daughter's betrothal ball not two fortnights ago, and was struck down by some horrid fever." Her voice lowered in sympathy. "He died not two days later."

Even though he'd been expecting it, the words sent a dagger through Geralt's heart. He clenched his teeth, his gaze fixed on the battered and scratched wood of the table. Some pair of lovers had carved their name into a heart on its surface. AN + VAD, it said.

A light hand landed on his shoulder, and he jerked. No one touched him. No one but Yen, sometimes, and - Jaskier - 

"Did you know him?" the brave barmaid asked, her voice low. He must have shown emotion, on his face - what a failure of a Witcher he was. Geralt jerked his head in assent, not trusting his voice. "I'll... I'll bring you some vodka," she said, and left, her featherlight touch still burning on his shoulder. 

Jaskier. His bard (and he had been his, dammit), so full of life, of energy, of song - dead. Geralt tried to imagine his face, still and cold in death, but it slipped through his mind like water, replaced by the image of Jaskier on the mountaintop, pain and heartbreak etched into every line of his face.

Geralt had never apologized. And now he never would, because Jaskier was dead.

He stared at the bottle of vodka the barmaid thumped down in front of him. Lifted it, and drank deep. And geralt could almost convince himself the tears in his eyes were from the burn of the liquor down his throat.

Almost.

He set out for Drakenborg the next morning, and Jaskier was dead. Geralt knew he shouldn't go, knew logically that there was nothing to be done. Knew that a real Witcher would not turn from the Path to apologize to a grave.

He went anyway.

\---

He killed monsters on the road, and Jaskier was dead. He stopped in at taverns and drank ale, and Jaskier was dead. He listened to music, Jaskier's music, and Jaskier was dead. Geralt wondered if this is how it would be, now, his every moment thinking of Jaskier, knowing he'd never see his friend (and how he regretted his resistance to Jaskier's friendship) - again.

A week later, he arrived at Drakenborg, and Jaskier was dead. 

The town was medium-sized, but shabby, huddled in the shadow of the castle on the hill above. Geralt could tell that the people here were not entirely happy or well-off, but they welcomed him as much as they could do. No one met his eyes, instead looking down at the street and hurrying away. At least no one was throwing stones - Jaskier's doing. Had Geralt ever thanked him, for rehabilitating his reputation with his songs, his stories?

He asked a passerby for direction to the graveyard, and got a pointed finger to the outskirts of town. Geralt squared his jaw and headed towards it, his pulse thrumming in his ears. This would make it all real- to see the small hump of dirt covering Jaskier's body. to see the name inscribed on the headstone. Geralt wondered if they'd buried Jaskier's lute with him. He hoped they had.

At the gates to the small cemetery, he dismounted Roach and tied her to a hitching post. "I'll say goodbye for you too," he promised, stroking her face. She nickered softly, and bent to nibble on the grass at his feet. 

Geralt turned from her to open the gate, but something caught his eye - an old woman in the road, headed towards him.

"Witcher!" she hissed as she approached, holding the hood of her cloak over her head. 

"I'm not taking any contracts," he said roughly, and made to open the gate.

"No, it's not that, it's - are you looking for a bard?" she said, eyes looking around furtively.

Geralt turned his full attention to her. "Jaskier, the bard, I heard he died here," and he motioned to the waiting rows of silent headstones.

The woman nodded to herself. "Yes, I thought I recognized you from his songs, White Wolf."

Geralt inclined his head, ignoring the pain that shot though him at the mention of Jaskier's ballads about him. She motioned for him to come closer, and he did, warily, leaning down to catch her whispered words.

"He's not there."

Geralt drew his brows together. "What, did they cremate him, for the fever?"

"Yes, well, yes. That's the story, the fever. But -" and here she grabbed his shoulder armor, yanked him down - "he's not dead."

Geralt jerked back, a spark of hope alighting in his belly even as he snarled, "You lie!" at the woman.

"No, no!" she hissed. "He is alive, Witcher, I swear to you!" 

Geralt stared at her, refusing to believe it. Jaskier was dead. He was dead, and Geralt had never apologized, never made it right between them, never told Jaskier what he meant to him. 

"If you're telling falsehoods, I'll make sure you never speak another word," he growled. The old woman flinched back but held her ground. "Tell me everything."

"I'm Pavia, a washerwoman at the castle," she said hurriedly, pulling Geralt slightly into the trees, hiding them from view. "The feast, for his daughter, the lord hired the bard to sing. He played here in town too - such a talented young man." 

Geralt grunted.

"But they said, after the feast, he took ill. No one saw him, though, until they told everyone he was dead. But he's not. The lord took a liking to him, faked his death so you wouldn't come looking."

That explained the standoffishness of the townsfolk, Geralt thought. Pavia continued. 

"He's got him locked up in the castle, the lord does, like a pet."

Geralt growled, rage overtaking him at the thought of his freewheeling bard as a prisoner to a lord. A pet, Pavia had said. Geralt couldn't stomach it.

"Why would you risk telling me this?"

Pavia looked away, sorrow on her wrinkled face. "My daughter, she's a cupbearer for the lord. She tripped, one night, and spilled wine all over the lord. Your bard claimed he accidentally tripped her and took the blame." She shook her head, then met Geralt's eyes. "I cleaned so much blood from his clothes that day, when he took the whipping meant for my girl."

Geralt's stomach dropped, and he felt dismay threaten to overwhelm him. Jaskier was not only alive and a prisoner, but injured? Tortured? The Witcher shook with rage.

"You must save him," Pavia whispered, "I'll help you."

\---

And help she did. Geralt had a tight hold on his emotions, now, as he and Pavia set out on the way to the castle, under cover of darkness. As they neared the keep, Geralt hung back and let Pavia go ahead towards the servant's entrance. She made a bit of smalltalk with the guard posted there, giving Geralt an opening to sneak up behind him and knock him out with the pommel of his sword. 

He lugged the guard through the door Pavia held open, and quickly tied him to a chair and locked him in the wine cellar. The laundress whispered directions as they stealthily made their way through the servant's corridors, until they stopped at a large wooden door.

"Through there," Pavia gestured. Geralt put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "Thank you," he rasped, and gave her a nod of respect. "Now go, they mustn't catch you here."

She met his eyes, nodded, and left. Geralt watched her go until she turned the corner, then took a small vial of black liquid from his belt. He downed the entire thing and shivered as his eyes went black and all his senses heightened.

Moving to the door, he peered through a crack, listening with his enhanced hearing for any sound of his missing bard. As the potion took effect, he could hear muffled cries of pain, and the unmistakeable crack of a whip. 

Geralt carefully opened the door, into another stone corridor. This one was much finer, with tapestries and ornate torches lining the walls. The sounds were coming from a chamber at the end of the hall, with a guard standing watch at the door. He looked up at the sound of the door, and then Geralt was on him, stabbing his sword through the man's gut and catching him as he fell. Soundlessly, Geralt lowered the dead man to the floor and approached the next door. 

Now Geralt could begin to make out words from the other side. 

"-try to escape again, and I'll take your toes," a gruff voice threatened. The whip cracked again, followed by a scream. Jaskier's scream. 

Geralt's face twisted in rage, and he shouldered open the door with sword held high.

The scene in front of him was enough to make him vomit. They were unmistakably in a lord's bedchamber, complete with a merry fire and a sumptuous four-poster bed. Strangely, there was an iron cage in the corner of the room. A cage tall enough for a man, and indeed, there was a man standing with his hands bound to the outside of the cage. A man with a mop of dark brown hair and whip marks crisscrossed across his back, blood streaming down his naked body to puddle on the floor. 

Jaskier. Geralt's heart stuttered at the the sight of his bard so badly hurt that he was visibly shaking on his feet. Jaskier's long fingered hands were white-knuckled around the bard of the cage as he fought to keep standing.

And there, frozen in shock and flanked by three more guards, was the portly lord of the castle, cruel whip sagging in his hand as he gaped at Geralt. 

Geralt let out a mindless snarl as he advanced on the lord. "G-get him!" the lord stammered, ordering his guardsmen forward.

They attacked all at once, witch a concerted effort. A good strategy, but no match for Geralt's unbridled rage. He sliced through the neck of the first man and pulled his sword out fluidly as the man dropped. Parried the other's slash, kicked the third in the chest as he rushed forward. Geralt whipped his sword up and around, beheading the man in front of him, then stabbed through the heart of the third man as he lay gasping from the force of Geralt's kick.

Geralt straightened and pulled his sword from the man’s chest. All in all, the fight took about twenty seconds. But it had been enough time for the lord to have procured a dagger, which he now held to Jaskier's neck. A neck which, Geralt now noticed, sported a locked leather collar, the sight of which twisted Geralt's insides uncomfortably. The bard's naked body was twisted as his hands were still bound to the cage, and the lord cowered behind him. 

Jaskier's eyes met Geralt's. He looked exhausted, and in more pain than Geralt had ever seen him. His face was mottled purple with bruises, and a cut leashed sluggishly from his split lips. Still, he smiled at Geralt tiredly, and it was the most beautiful thing the witcher had ever seen. 

"Geralt!" he rasped with a voice strained from screaming. "So nice of you to drop by."

"Jaskier," Geralt said fondly, and tilted his head. He focused in on the lord with the knife to Jaskier's neck, focused on his rabbitty heartbeat. Soon that heartbeat would stop, and Geralt would feel the life run from his veins.  
Geralt bared his teeth at the man and snarled, "Let him go."

"What, and just let you kill me?" the man said, panicked. "No. No. You put your sword down, or he dies."

"You're dead either way."

"As is he," said the lord, and pressed the knife closer to Jaskier's throat. The bard didn't shudder, didn't even flinch, but Geralt could hear his tiny intake of breath. 

They stood there staring at each other for a long moment, tension singing in the air.

"Fuck." growled Geralt, and dropped his sword. The lord jumped at the clang it made against the stone, but then seemed to relax.

"Ah, he's your weakness, eh Witcher?" the lord said, almost conspiratorially. "Mine too."

"Hn," said Geralt, still in a ready stance, his every sense trained on the two men before him. 

"My guards will be here any moment," continued the lord, "and you will surrender to them. And then everything can go back as it was, hmm, songbird?" Jaskier twitched and averted his eyes. The lord laughed. "Ah yes, he was just too charming to let go. We were shocked to hear that you'd let such a talent slip through your fingers, Witcher. But one man'd loss is another man's gain, as they say."

"He's not yours to gain, you bastard,” Geralt sneered. "He's a person, not a pet."

"Ah, I think you'll find that's where you're wrong, Witcher," the lord said in a singsong voice. "He is mine, now, aren't you songbird? Body and soul."

Jaskier reddened. He didn't meet Geralt's eyes anymore, just stared at the floor.

"Shall I tell him, pet?" taunted the lord. "Tell him how you sang for me from your pretty cage, how you sucked me off like a common whore, how I took you like a woman until you screamed?

"No," Jaskier whispered, so softly. Geralt could feel the rage building behind his eyelids, tearing at his chest, but still he waited at the ready for the right moment.

"Oh, he put up a fight at first." The lord laughed and looked away from Geralt, at the sound of booted feet moving up the corridor. "Nothing that a few whippings and starvation couldn't fix--"

Geralt moved, quicker than lighting, and there was a knife stuck through the lord's eye. He gurgled, once, then dropped like a stone to the floor. Geralt longed to go to Jaskier, to fold him up in his arms and bear him far, far away from this plce. First, though, he moved to the door, scooping his sword up as he went.

The corridor filled with the clatter of booted feet as guards rushed towards the door, only to stop short at the sight of a witcher covered in blood with sword at the ready.

"Your lord is dead." called Geralt. "Let us go, unless you'd like to meet the same fate."

The guards murmured and shifted, but drew weapons. Geralt sighed and sank into a defensive stance.

"Guards, stand down!" ordered a ringing voice. From another door came a young woman, with the bearing of nobility.

"My lady," said the guards in unison, bowing their heads to her. 

"You will not hinder this Witcher or his companion in their departure," she stated. "We all know what depravity has happened here. Let them go, and speak not a word of this to anyone.” She paused, then laughed a bit to herself. “My father has died of fever."

The guards murmured an assent, and filed away at the lady's signal. It seemed no one here had condoned the lord's behavior, but had not dared to speak against him. All but Pavia, that is.

The lady approached Geralt, and he nodded to her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, with a regretful expression. "I wish I could do more. Please, take this." She offered her hand, and Geralt took the gold and gemstone bracelet from her palm.

"As payment. For killing a monster." Her eyes were too knowing. Geralt nodded again, and she turned away.

He rushed back into the room, back to Jaskier's side. It seemed the bard had lost his battle with gravity, and was slumped down on the ground next to the corpse of the lord. His arms were still tied to the bars. Geralt sawed at the bonds with his knife, and once Jaskier was free, carefully supported him to lay across Geralt's lap on his side, so as not to aggravate the whip marks and cuts on his back. 

"Geralt?" Jaskier mumbled. "'Issat you?"

"Yes, it's me," Geralt rumbled, and stroked a hand through his bard's bloody, sweaty locks. Jaskier's blue eyes fluttered open.

"You're here," he smiled, and lifted a hand to cup Geralt's cheek. The witcher covered Jaskier's hand with his own, holding it there, and whispered, "I'm so sorry, Jaskier."  
  
Jaskier smiled, and it was like the sun had come out after days of rain. "You are forgiven, you horse's arse," said the bard. "On one condition."

Geralt's heart felt twenty times lighter at the possibility of forgiveness.

"Anything."

"Just-get me out of here," Jaskier pleaded, and Geralt nodded.

\---

Later, after the village healer had seen to Jaskier and been sworn to secrecy by Geralt, the witcher sat by Jaskier's bedside. He couldn't seem to stop touching Jaskier, like he was making sure the bard was really alive and with him, so he had Jaskier's hand clenched in his.

Jaskier had passed out sometime during the healer's visit. Now he lay, as still as death (but not dead, not dead, Geralt reminded himself). Geralt had cleaned him as much as he could, gotten the majority of the blood off, but the souvenirs of Jaskier's captivity remained. Purple and green bruises marred his face, his lip was split and scabbing, and his neck and wrists where he'd been restrained were raw and tender. Geralt laid his other hand on Jaskier's chest, over his heart. While his heart was beating steadily, reassuringly, the bard's ribs protruded from his thin body. Geralt rand a hand down his side and could feel every single one.

Jaskier's eyes cracked open at the witcher's soft touch, and Geralt snatched his hand back like it was afire. "No," Jaskier whined, waving one of his hand vaguely in Geralt's direction. "Put it back."

Geralt sighed but couldn't resist, and gently settled his hand back along Jaskier's ribs. "You don't mind - touching me?" Jaskier said, softly, intently, his eyes firmly on the ceiling. 

"No. Why would I?" Geralt said gruffly.

"Cause of, you know, the - the things he did to me, the lord I mean - "

"Jaskier," Geralt interrupted, "That was wrong. And not your fault, understand?"

Jaskier nodded jerkily, then met Geralt's gaze. His eyes held a bit of fear, and Geralt's heart broke. Jaskier had never been afraid of him before. 

"Is this - is this wrong?" Jaskier whispered, and then his hand pulled Geralt's head down. Geralt let him do it, let him fit their lips together, sweet and probing. Then Jaskier's hand let Geralt go, and he pulled back.

Jaskier looked up at him, yellow meeting blue, his face full of hope and apprehension. Geralt just looked at him, drinking in the sight of his bard, alive, until he realized Jaskier was waiting for an answer.

"No, Jaskier," Geralt murmured, leaning back over the bard and dragging his lips across the bruises and cuts, kissing them all ever so gently. "This is right."

**Author's Note:**

> Incredibly predictable, I know. But leave a comment if you liked it anyway!


End file.
